


Call them Brothers

by effywho



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, One Shot, character injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-21 08:52:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/effywho/pseuds/effywho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is hiding something. And Sherlock is having none of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call them Brothers

"Wingman," said John, disgruntled, "they're calling me your wingman now."

It was a warm summers evening in 221B Baker Street. Sherlock lounged on the leather sofa, eyes closed serenely. "Well, I suppose it's marginally better than sidekick."

John answered with a glare and threw the newspaper to one side in favour of his old laptop. They sat in companionable silence, interjected only by the soft, slow tap of John's typing. It was, by all standards, a pleasant kind of day. The case of the week was firmly closed – satisfyingly so. Sherlock relished in the memory of the last brother's final free moments. Ah closure.

"Listen," John began.

"I am _always_ listening," said Sherlock smoothly. "Oh, I am sorry," he amended, "where you going to say something interesting? Do continue."

John sighed. "There's somewhere I need to go. I might...be a while."

Sherlock opened one eye with interest, "Oh." He studied scene carefully as his friend got to his feet, proceeding towards the door rather more quickly than was typical of him. "Anything I should know about?" he asked.

John halted. "No, I shouldn't think so."

They looked at each other for one long moment; a picture of guilt and curiosity.

"Well, stay out of trouble," said John, by way of goodbye, and he disappeared down the stairs and out onto the quiet street.

Sherlock frowned to himself. He liked to think he had John fairly well figured out at this point. They had been living together little under a year, and he had made mental note of every little quirk and habit the other man possessed. He knew how he took his tea (though of course he never offered to make any), he knew that John shaved every morning without fail, and that his fists would rhythmically clench and unclench unless the air was entirely free of tension (John saw the world in varying degrees of tension, Sherlock had decided), and yet. Sherlock lay back and let his eyes close again. _Think._

Slowly, he opened his eyes. There was only one thing for it: _get coat, follow._

John was not in a hurry anymore. He travelled away from home at a saunter, hands in pockets (fists clenched). Wherever he was going, he didn't want to get a cab. So it was close? Or, more likely, he was thinking something over. Perhaps he had no destination. The shifty nervousness of his departure suggested otherwise.

Sherlock dipped behind a phone box as John stuttered to a standstill, phone trilling a generic ringtone from his pocket. John put it to his ear and said nothing as he accepted the call – something John would surely consider rude (an unwelcome caller?)

"I'm on my way," he said, reluctantly. "Yeah, see you soon."

That was the last thing Sherlock heard him say before it happened.

Two blocks away, a little crowd from the take-away, some talkative German tourists, and he had lost him. Sherlock stopped, and then he fizzed with anger. It was clear what had happened (after all, what natural cause could break Sherlock from a fresh scent):

"Mycroft!" he barked into his phone, after ignoring his instinctive dislike of conversing with the man to dial. "What have you done with him?"

Mycroft paused haughtily. "I have done nothing, brother. You are the one following him, are you not?"

"What the hell are you playing at?"

"Has it occurred to you," said Mycroft, irritation seeping through his voice, "that you simply lost him."

"Impossible."

"Don't be so sure," was the smug reply.

Sherlock stopped his impatient scanning of the nearby area and glowered in the general direction of his brother, "Meaning?"

"Meaning your doctor may not be as oblivious as you believe him to be."

"You think he knows I'm on his trail?"

"I do not know," Mycroft said loftily. "Do go away now; some of us have important work to be getting on with."

Sherlock hung up. The hunt was on.

* * *

He walked through London somewhat grumpily. Sure now that John had not, in fact, been swept away by some villain in a black car, he had only his instincts to follow. If John were to meet someone, he reasoned with himself, he would wish do to it on neutral territory (which ruled out Baker Street). Probably he would choose somewhere familiar. It stood to reason that if this person was of unsavoury memory he would want the upper hand in at least venue. He stood before his final deduction. This was the place; it must be:

_The Fox and Hound,_ John's local.

It was with utmost disdain that he slipped in through the crowd of chattering patrons. He sneered silently at them as he passed; Yobs, young yobs and twice divorced middle-aged ones; _unbearable._

He spotted John at the bar; two pints, two stools... He stared, at ease in the knowledge that there would be no distracting his flatmate in this noisy (and decidedly smelly) joint.

Then John was on his phone again, "Mm-hmm. Yeah I'm here. Let's get this over with then. Meet me at the bar."

With a smirk, Sherlock flicked his collar to brush his jaw. Maybe some entertainment could be found in this cesspit after all...

He approached confidently and swept easily past every inebriated acne-ridden teenager between them. He sat down beside John with a flourish. "Well then. Explain yourself."

John looked at him and then something exceptionally annoying happened: first his face broke into a wide smile, and then he laughed. He laughed so much that he doubled over and was unable to even so much as acknowledge his disgruntled flatmate for several minutes.

Sherlock watched the breakdown and he resisted the urge to flounce away (a path that boasted some dignity for him to keep). Instead he sat (almost patient in his stony quiet) and waited. Only then did he try again. "John," He said, "Who are you meeting?"

John wiped away a tear from his eye. "I thought that was obvious." He pushed the second pint towards the disgruntled detective and smiled affectionately, "you, you great mug."

"Oh," Sherlock breathed deeply as John burst into a fresh fit of laughter. "I see. This was all an elaborate plan to get me agree to accompany you to the pub."

John patted his shoulder absently, downing the last of his own drink. "Don't look so glum, that's not all." He paused dramatically. "Lestrade owes me fifty quid; he didn't think it would work."

Sherlock got up to leave, John followed. He put a firm hand on Sherlock's elbow and turned him around. "Not so fast. There's one more thing."

"Oh, please, amaze me."

They sat back down; Sherlock folded his arms, awaiting the final blow.

"Happy birthday"

* * *

It was an uncomfortable and strange thing for Sherlock – to be surprised. It left a cool distaste on his tongue. But stranger still, he found it was bearable. Not enjoyable, he insisted, on pint four, not even nearly; but bearable. John laughed a lot that night. Sherlock too, though he couldn't have told you why. By the time they stumbled back to Baker Street the moon was high and the night was heavy with the promise of rain. A click of keys in the door, a laugh in the purple dark, a shadow fell.

Silence followed shortly.

The stranger had a gun, John's gun held aloft at John's heart. Panicked young eyes stared out at them.

Unbearable tension rolled over them in waves. John had the good sense to keep his twitching fists still.

"Holmes. You took something of mine."

Sherlock's face masked any recognition. "Who are you?"

"You know bloody well who I am."

"Put the gun down, Garrideb."

"Don't play games with me!"

_Bang!_

It happened so suddenly, and so viciously did it tear through the quiet stress of the hall that Sherlock was left quite speechless for a moment. But only for a moment, because then he saw John fall. The nervous gunner balked. "Blood for blood, Holmes," he said, before the hard white fist of his audience met the sweat of his brow with a heady _thunk!_

It didn't change the fact. John was down. _John?_

Man down.

Call the police, ambulance (fire brigade)?

He clutched the collar of the man ( _John?)_ shook him. Shake him (CPR?)

Prop him against the wall, find the blood _(John was shot?)_

Shirt off, find the wound; Sherlock fell forward and shivered in pure relief, leaning freely against his injured comrade – _John is ok._

A bad aim, the bullet merely skimmed the flesh of John's waist. _It's just a scratch._

John stirs, and it feels like he suddenly remembered to breathe. Sherlock leans back, looking for guidance, medical advice, laughter, evidence of life; proof.

He watches as reality catches up with his friend, and then they both reach the same conclusion: _alive._

They grin like maniacs, and John puts a hand behind Sherlock's neck, guiding him closer, forehead to forehead. Sherlock realises that his breathing is erratic as he feels the steady hue of John's calm. They are alright.

Call Lestrade. Breathe.

Sherlock stares as John begins to laugh once more, clutching at the bleeding tear in his skin. He wonders if everything is as a-ok as previously determined. Carefully he places he hand over John's, mentally paling as blood seeps through their interlocked fingers. "John?"

John just laughs, shaky and sad. "Happy birthday," he says again, and then he's gone.

* * *

Sherlock has never experienced this before: the waiting, the awful, senseless fear and a good serving of drunken confusion. Hospital was bright and ugly to his sensitive eyes. The people were noisy, or else sad and nervous and that was just as irritating. Sharp bleach and latex assaulted his senses, a crying baby drilled into the last useful parts of his brain and – worst of all – his eyelids were becoming heavy with sleep. What he wouldn't give for his own bed, and the soft patter of a definitely-healthy John going about his business in Baker Street.

John had stared at him in the ambulance, unseeing; Scars, pale white and silver, spun a web on his bare chest. Lestrade had insisted on the ambulance. Sherlock had tried, through meaningless words of disagreement, to communicate that it wasn't that bad. They were fine ( _alive)_ John had been laughing _(he had been to the pub)_ it was needless. Don't call an ambulance. He just needs to sleep.

Sherlock had never wished for restful sleep more in his life.

"Mr Holmes?"

He looked up as if in a daze.

"Mr Sherlock Holmes?" a short, dark nurse was looking right at him, questioning.

"Yes," Sherlock stumbled to his feet, "that's me."

"You're with John Watson?"

"Yes."

"Well, Mr Holmes, John's going to be fine. He's had a few stitches, and we're keeping him overnight just to be on the safe side – bullet wounds are nasty things. But he was lucky, it's a superficial wound."

"There was so much blood..."

"Just a surface wound," she clarified, "you should get some rest now, Mr Holmes. Your friend will be home in no time at all."

* * *

The night was endless. Sleep did not come easy and rest was nothing but a perverse copy of such. After a few hours of dark muttering and pillow-turning, he gave up altogether. The sun was up, the flat was bathed light. John would have liked that.

_(John isn't dead.)_

He made a cup of tea (too sweet, too weak) and paced. A few times he picked up his phone, skimmed through worried text messages (Lestrade, Lestrade, Lestrade, Mycroft, Lestrade,) and looked blankly at some daytime telly. Dull. The flat was empty and quiet (John had made him sentimental).

_(John is still alive.)_

Shower, watch the news. Smoke a cigarette?

His mobile vibrated gently on the kitchen table. Molly this time; ignore.

A knock on the front door; ignore.

Turn up the telly; curl up on leather armchair (not sulking).

Incessant knocking; rude!

"Sherlock!"

John. He freezes. Walks downstairs on air, head pounding (hangover or psychological reaction to shock?)

"Sherlock, let me in!"

The door snaps open (Sherlock must have opened it).

"I forgot my keys."

_(John is not dead.)_

He stands there, in all his five foot seven glory. (Smiling, dark eyes – tired, John didn't sleep well either?)

"You ok?" he asks; concern on his concern – he is full of it. Compassionate, concerned John; concerned for him? _(John was shot!)_

Sherlock gives himself a little shake and steps aside. "Try not to get mud on the carpet," he says. John just smiles and complies, because for one moment (one small, shining moment) he saw the great heart of Sherlock Holmes.

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of my Off the Record one-shot series that can be found in its entirety at fanfiction.net: http://www.fanfiction.net/u/2685881/effywho  
> Thanks for reading!


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